


Faith Over Fear

by naturesinmyeye



Series: Flower Series - Choose Your Own Bouquet Tumblr Thank Yous [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flowers Challenge, Heavy Angst, Lady Cyprus, hope at the end, major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fourth story in my Tumblr/Flowers Challenge. This one is for Ladycyprus. </p><p>The flowers she chose were Jonquil (love me, desire, desire for affection returned), forsythis (anticipation),and Maidenhari fern (secret bond of love) with a special request for first signs of spring in canon AU. I took a more figurative  meaning on first signs of spring and the result is a hard punch in the feels. A little influence from SassyEggs, a dash of my current obsession with not so perfect, messy Sansan reunions and taa-daa! Happy ending though for sure. Can't seem to stay away from those.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith Over Fear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyCyprus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCyprus/gifts).



Half a year ago Sandor Clegane, a ghost Sansa thought never to see again, kneeled before her brother, Brandon Stark, the established Lord of Winterfell. The Hound wore simple peasant’s garb under a cloak of bearskin, but there was a long sword on his back and a belt with knives around his waist. Sandor kept his eyes on anything other than Sansa, confessing to Bran that he had abandoned his sister and left her surrounded by ambitious lions, spiders, mockingbirds and worse in King’s Landing. He was a coward, he said to the floor, and a debt needed repaying. What debt he owed, he did not say specifically, but he swore to die before ever leaving her vulnerable again.  If Sansa would agree to having him in her service, that was. Sandor’s eyes flicked over her features once, and Sansa found herself spellbound in the knowledge that, given the time spent parted from him, she could still recognize a flash of fear as he braced himself for a polite, but firm, rejection of his offer. She wanted to grow angry at his assumption but quickly thought better of it. He had given her his promise of protection in the past and been met with refusal, after all. How was he to know the regret that had eventually found her after that night?

 

It had been five years since Sansa had last seen him, heard his rasp of a voice or dared to give him a touch meant to quell his rage or impart empathy. Five years spent first denying his tie to her, then accepting it. Months spent analyzing every word and gesture she could recall. Nights spent dreaming of a shadow in her bed that, at times, morphed into a man with half a face.  Days spent weeping behind closed doors until she had finally mourned enough to move on, choosing to live but never forget.

 

Sansa gave Bran a nod of consent and Sandor was now a man of the North. Bran cautioned Sandor that he would be placed in the house guard barracks, until such time when he could prove himself worthy of the title sworn shield. They gave him a plate of hot food, new clothes, a suit of armor, a fresh edge to his sword and use of the baths. The very next morning he was the first man in the training yard. For days Sandor did nothing but eat, sleep and demonstrate the talent he possessed with steel in his hand. The slight limp in one leg and the half dozen years added to his age had done little to slow him down. The modest amount he lacked in speed, he made up for with experience, an ability to adjust to his opponents tactics, and of course, more mass than many of his brothers in arms.

 

Sandor had been with them a full week before Sansa found the opportunity to speak with him privately. Coming back from the Ravenry, she ran into him leading his steed to the stables. An uncomfortable silence came over the both of them as they took a minute to look at one another. Sansa noted a small patch of gray at his temple and for some reason couldn’t tear her eyes away from it. Sandor cleared his throat, obviously done with their interaction and waiting on her to dismiss him. Nothing of the sort occurred.

 

“I _never_ thought you a coward,” she said bluntly, making the statement her first words to him since they had reunited.  

 

Sandor was just as quick to pick up where they had left off, it seemed. “You should have. You never could see what was right in front of you.”

 

“And you never bothered to look at what wasn’t. I gave you your song.”

 

“You forget the part where I put a blade to your neck?”

 

“You wouldn’t have hurt me. We both know it to be true.”

 

“Still lost in stories, Little Bird?”

 

“No. I’ve learned to write my own and see the others for what they were.”

 

Sandor toyed with the reins in his hands. “I haven’t changed.”

 

“Did I ask you to?”

 

“The Little Bird’s found herself a sharp tongue.”

 

“A hound taught me when and where to use it.”

 

Sandor chuckled; a sound Sansa had rarely heard in the past. It made some part of her tingle with the need to hear it again.  She was well aware of the double entendre behind her words. Much like Sandor’s “song”, Sansa could play at words as well. Her first husband was long dead after one of the countless battles to either gain or protect Winterfell, and she was no longer shy to the ways of men and women. Sandor shook his head and stayed silent in front of her for a long moment.

 

“What I said to your brother was true.” He paused. “I brought a sword. Nothing more.”

 

“Are you certain?” Sansa asked, ashamed at the tremble in her voice. She had been sure his heart would want to rest next to hers.  “That night” –there was a quick change in his eyes, warning her to tread lightly-  “You could have . . . I would have. Eventually.”

 

“You _have_ been reading your fairly tales still. What was I to do? Sling you over my shoulder and haul you, weeping, past the entire city? I could barely stand on my own. I could barely _survive_ on my own. And you expected me to care for you as well?”

 

“You said you would.”

 

“I was drunk and frightened. Never listen to a man when he’s drowning in either.”

 

Sansa wanted to cry, and bit her lip to keep from doing so. It was true. He _hadn’t_ changed. He had never loved her and she was still a child in his eyes. But there was one fact that made her stick out her chin defiantly.

 

“You mock my hope and yet _you’re_ the one forcing himself back into my life. Fairy tales! I’ll tell you one. One about a dog who chased the memory of a bird for _years_ , showing up at her door and talking of pledges and debts owed!”

Sansa turned on her heel, leaving Sandor out in the snow. Wiping at her eyes, she marched back to the house, refusing to let him reduce her to tears. She was stronger than that now. If a Lady to serve was all he was after, she would give him one, proud and stolid in manner.

 

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Stiff. Cold. Blank. The Lady Stark wore these masks for her sworn shield. At night her heart broke over and over again.

 

Stone faced. Unemotional. Obedient. The Hound responded in turn. Sansa was left unaware as to what his heart did in the bleak night hours, if he did, in fact, harbor one.

 

Until one night.

 

Every ten days Sandor was given a twenty-four hour period of leave. Another guard took his place and he reluctantly left her side. On those days, Sansa would spy him making his way towards the dining hall well past noon, rubbing at the sleep still in his eyes. Any other day he was up before dawn, dressed in full armor, at her door and grumbling that she had already slept half the morning away.  He was a cad but he was _good_ at his duty.

 

In the evenings, he took to the small towns within Winterfell’s boundaries. Sansa never asked what he did but she could guess. Her ears and eyes were far from virginal. There where plenty of entertainments to be found for a man with coin in his pocket. Sansa’s sleep was almost non-existent on those nights. She worried for him and chided herself for still caring. Frustrated one night, Sansa wrapped herself in a dressing robe and placed soft, silken slippers on her feet. The Kitchen Master would be up at such an early hour, starting the ovens and filling the wash tubs. The man would warm her some milk and honey if she asked it of him.

 

Upon his promotion to sworn shield, Sandor had been granted a new room. His quarters had been moved to the same floor as Bran and Sansa’s rooms, with other important members of the household. Highborns down one hall, service men and women tucked away in the other, with a staircase dividing the two. Sansa would have allowed him a room within the same hall as hers but Bran deemed it inappropriate; Clegane was a lesser House he reminded her, and though he didn’t wish to be cruel he had the expectations of a Lord to uphold. So Sandor remained in the station he’d held since birth, not Lowborn enough for the stables nor Highborn enough to share Sansa’s table.

 

That’s where Sansa found him. Stuck somewhere in the middle. There was barely enough light from her candle to see properly, but there was no mistaking the hulking man that sat exactly halfway between her room and his. Sandor was facing the direction of her door, swaying unsteadily in his seat, like a babe that had been spun round and round till it became dizzy. He seemed not to notice her at all until she spoke.

 

“Sandor?” she tried. It had been a long time since she’d seen him in this state but she knew to remain calm. He would mirror her actions and tone. That pattern had been well established between them ages ago, whether he cared to admit to it or not. 

 

Sandor lifted his head and _saw_ her. “Little Bird?” he answered. He hadn’t called her that since the first time they had spoken upon his arrival at Winterfell.

 

“Come,” she commanded, offering her hand. “You’ll catch your death sitting on the cold stones like that. Can you stand?”

 

Sandor didn’t reply, groaning and cursing at the cracks and pops from his knees and back as he struggled to stand. He used the banister to gain his footing and then leaned heavily on her shoulder. Step by step, together, they wove their way down the hall. Thankfully, his room was only three away from the stairs.

 

Once past his doorway, he toppled onto his bed, belly up with his legs hanging over the edge at the knee. He kicked at his boots, doing nothing but marking them, while Sansa gently shut his door. Sitting up –with a fresh slew of curses- Sandor reached for his boots and struggled to loosen the buckles.

 

“What happened?” she asked, approaching and kneeling to help him.

 

Above her, Sandor snorted and laughed but when she looked up at him she saw tears in his eyes. “Get up,” he rasped and when she didn’t move his tone became pleading, “Sansa, for God’s sake, get up off the ground. Don’t fucking kneel in front of _me_.”

 

She stood, nervous at the change in his demeanor. It was fine for him to bend the knee for her but not the other way around? Sansa felt her own eyes well with tears. One hand slowly reached out to tangle within his hair. The sigh he let loose reminded Sansa of all the reasons why she loved this particular man, the strange contrast between strength and fragility that he carried within him making her stomach knot with the knowledge of what they could be to one another. “What happened?” she tried again.

 

“Nothing!” he barked, drunken, crazed giggles breaking through every sentence he uttered. “Had a good one ready to go. Hair like yours. And pretty too. They’re not always pretty. Her hands weren’t as soft as yours. Too rough. She smelled wrong. And nothing!” He had started to shout by the end of his ramblings, holding her by each of her arms and shaking her firmly. “Nothing happened because of _you!_ ” There was no more laughter. Only angry trails of wetness down his cheeks.

 

“I told you months ago I would be yours! You said you were a sword only,” Sansa countered, exasperated. “You laid out the rules!”  Sandor looked at his hands gripping her sleeves, and dropped them. He rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand and Sansa took pity on him. Drunk and frightened, his voice spoke in her head. _He’s frightened_. “Do you wish to change our agreement?”

 

“It won’t work,” he said mournfully.

 

“You don’t speak for me.”

 

“Speak for myself.”

 

“You haven’t even tried.”

 

“Better to leave it be than lose it altogether.”  His head hung low to his chest. “Told you I was a coward. You don’t listen well.”

 

Sansa held her tongue, choosing instead to exhale deeply through her nose. There was no sense or point in arguing with him when he was in his cups. He had his mind made up and it was only time and action that could persuade him to see things her way. She bent at the hip, placing her at eyelevel with him and gave him a genuine look of fondness. “Do _not_ forget this tomorrow,” she ordered, kissing his unmoving lips. He tasted like stale wine and charred meat. It wasn’t quite the dream she had in mind, but it was a start. Then it all suddenly became better than a dream as his arms flew around her, balling her robe within his fists. She felt crushed and wanted within his hold. He ducked his head, down and away from her lips and touched his forehead to the crook of her neck for only a moment. When she didn’t object he sagged into her, letting his unmarred cheek press against her own.

 

“What debt do you owe?” she whispered in his ear, wrapping her arms loosely around his shoulders. The forceful, adamant shake of his head was her answer. “Tell me,” she beseeched. “I promise, I swear it, I won’t mislead you. I can keep you safe as well.”

 

His hand searched for one of hers. When he had it, he carefully placed her fingertips on top of his scars. The arm around her middle shook and he clutched at her robe all the tighter to try and stop himself. When he had grown accustomed to her fingertips, he pushed at her hand until her palm lay flat against his ruin. “This,” he choked. “This and a song, Little Bird. This debt I can never repay.”

 

 

……………………….

 

The following morning Sansa woke to the sound of rain. It wasn’t rain though, she observed, from her window. The sky was clear and warm. Blazing sunlight lit the room. The icicles decorating the buildings of Winterfell were melting rapidly in the newborn spring thaw.  Sandor was outside her door, looking a bit worse for wear but at full attention and ready to escort her to the first meal of the day. “Did you forget?” she asked.

 

A gloved hand cupped her jaw. “No,” he said in a gravely tone before kissing her soundly.

 

…………………………

 

 

Understanding. Grounded optimism. Forgiveness. Sansa loved him with all she had.

 

Passion. Devotion. Trust. Sandor gave back that which he’d been given.


End file.
